Old Words, Old Ways Unattended Overextended Such dis-placement Never intended So little So late No one I will turn  or hold on to Anger Frustration Can not explain This rigidity Rising to leave Blood rushing Filling the emptiness In my brain Remnant of  An explosion That marked  The beginning Of my acceptance Of this Entropic Terminal space

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All poems are original material  and is copyrighted  © 1979-2006; Ian Wuolle

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